In reply to llechwedd:
First met Gerry in 1989, with my mates from Pompey Poly on the first of many visits. Despite being student types, we somehow made friends, between the tellings off, probably as we were always willing to drive him to the pub, and perhaps because I was born in the same town, Mansfield, just a mile or so from his birthplace on the Rainworth Road. Initially we went to the Achnasheen Hotel, which eventually burnt down, where we played pool to "Gerry's Rules" which changed whenever the game went against him.
20+ winter trips later, one most years, we had him mostly house-trained. This was achieved by me playing the "Malcolm from Mansfield" card on booking, and always taking a polypin of decent ale, which he would have just a half or two of. It didn't mean he never moaned at us, but he genuinely seemed pleased to see us, and always spent a bit longer in the lounge to share a few tall stories over a beer, and sometimes still came down the pub.
Over the years, there are endless stories. He was a miserable old git some years, but not many, and had mellowed since our third or fourth trip, when "ME" had (rightly or wrongly) become a recognised disease amongst "yuppies". Gerry claimed to have it (and genuinely had some tough years then), but we christened it "MB" - miserable bastard. But we loved the hostel. Gerry's eccentricities were balanced by an evil sense of humour, which was slightly, and happily, warped, and a surprisingly generous nature. Not that we were always that happy to be offered some dodgy, out of date food, or strange drinks that were unrecognisable. Then there was the night when he got us drunk enough to invite them into the private side of the hostel, playing us Betsy Smith records and plying us with some really dodgy liquor. He also roped us into advising, and occasionally briefly helping, on various bizarre DIY jobs, none of which made much sense, but all of which supposedly saved him money.
The fire is the heart of the hostel, and nobody built a better one than Gerry. We were trusted, just occasionally, with lighting our own, and one year even building it ourselves with logs we were "allowed" to get from the wood store without supervision, when Gerry was feeling ill. The record collection, eccentric, warped and scratched, introduced 3 young blokes to Scottish Folk, especially Silly Wizard, which has become the music of all our Highland adventures for more than 2 decades. The common room in that hostel is one of my favourite rooms in the world, each of the 3 of us had our "own" favourite chair, where many an hour was spent listening to folk as the fire burned, the beer flowed, and the last whisky of the evening warmed our throats as the last embers glowed.
Some years, there were actually other people staying at the same time as us, despite the reputation of the place. This led to us witnessing some of the famous Gerry temper and eccentricity, but also to watching the bemused faces of his other guests, especially the French lass who witnessed pretty much everything that Gerry had to show off underneath his infamous dressing gown, as he never seemed to realise he was displaying to the world when he sat down. Or maybe he did...
Gerry charged too much for the hostel in recent years, and never moved with the times in terms of updating the hostel. That was part of the charm, though, and many a time I've visited warm and comfortable hostels and thought "I wish this was a bit more like Gerry's". We nearly fell out a few years back, when he charged us extra for our "usual room" being a family room, but only mentioned the surcharge on leaving after 4 nights. We didn't go back for 3 years, but I'm now very glad that last year we did return, and were greeted like old friends and given a "special rate", that was no doubt the same as everybody paid that winter.
So, I have some amazing memories of Gerry's. Most good, some less so, but all very strong. Its been a special place to me, and that's thanks to the character that was Gerry.
Most of all, though, I remember the laugh.
RIP Gerry, you daft, miserable old bugger, I'll miss ya. In a couple of weeks we're up in the NW once again. I hope perhaps we can return to the hostel one last time, sit in front of that famous fire, and raise a glass to you mate.
Malcolm from Mansfield.